


Mad Memories

by WolfVenom



Series: R6S Drabbles [26]
Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Adult Content, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gen, Graphic Description, Human Experimentation, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Innuendo, Medical Procedures, Medical Torture, Minor Character Death, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Serious Injuries, Terrorists, Unethical Experimentation, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-31 13:39:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18592348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfVenom/pseuds/WolfVenom
Summary: A short drabble delving into brief introductions of my R6S White Mask OC Sandy, and his two companions.The good doctor is never one to turn down a gift.





	Mad Memories

**Author's Note:**

> Very explicit adult content. Heed the warnings.   
> (Not proof-read; mistakes will be edited later.)
> 
> Sandy is my own.  
> Risus and Sign belong to Saku.

_    Latex and iodoform; the sharp bite of antiseptic wipes burning his nostrils and the tingling pressure of excess nitrous oxide swirling lazily in his lungs. Unperturbed, the doctor relaxes under the plethora of scents assaulting his body, gently falling backwards into its viscous embrace and letting his mind be consumed by the comforting static thereafter. The rhythmic wheeze of the ventilator pushed against the cracked brick wall lulls his hands into a familiar dance, squeezing a finger into the tight hole and prodding the surrounding tissues for any obstructions, any out-of-place discoveries. Blood bubbles frantically in the tiny gaps between his gloved flesh and the shorn skin compromising the wound, yet he simply hums delightedly and ignores the weakening cries of his beloved patient, wet gurgles meshing nicely with the frantic beeping of the cardiac monitor. _ __  
_  
_ _    A fist threatens to bash fiercely against the cheek of his mask, to which Sandy evades the poorly-executed attack and uses his free hand to crush the offending wrist back down to the metal table, jovial melody still rumbling from his throat even as his patient chokes on a scream and locks up beneath his restraints, muscles trembling violently under the stress. Sandy perks up brightly, the tip of his nail scratching the surface of a  _ very  __ foreign object near the external jugular vein, right beneath the shredded surface of the sternocleidomastoid muscle. It was a shame the injury was lethal. A loss of a good soldier, but Sandy gained more in the mans inevitable fatality. It was obvious the penetrating wound was going to end in death, the medic simply took the incentive and pushed the autopsy ahead of schedule…

 

_   If it were any other injury, Sandy surely would have taken more care in extraction. Would have used up the valuable disinfectant in his locker, gently scraping dirt and debris from the cavern left by the point forty caliber bullet with gauze drenched in saline solution, turning the angry red innards pink. Would have taken care not to  _ dig  _ for the thing, just locate and extract with forceps to prevent sepsis infections. Would have sutured the tissues and ruptured blood vessels shut, tied the arteries up tight, and sewed muscle and skin back in place. Would have applied a generous coating of petroleum and bandaged the site. Possibly would have numbed the area by injecting a local anaesthetic, pumping the nerves full of lidocaine.  _

 

_    But these are luxuries the dead and dying do not  _ deserve.

 

_    As it is, Sandy exhales aggressively against the tubing inside his mask and relishes in the freedom to  _ take  _ and not worry for the consequences.  _

 

_ So he grips the bullet none too delicately in the grasp of his unsanitized forceps and twists it out of the flesh as if he was uncorking a bottle. Protests die on the victim’s tongue as arteries begin spilling freely, no longer plugged by a mound of lead alloy, splashing grotesquely against the table and spraying red warmth against the dirtied white of the doctor’s mask. He eyes the offending object briefly, turning it this way and that in the glaring white light of his overhead, before tossing it into the kidney dish on the table at his hip. The exposed skin of his patient is cold and clammy, paling considerably and providing a strikingly stark contrast against the deep crimson hue painting the flesh. His eyes and mouth are both covered and gagged, respectfully, so Sandy regretfully cannot watch the pain flare across the mans features and life slowly ebb from his gaze. But he has a job to finish. _

 

_    As blood flow steadily begins to decline, the doctor presses the clean ridge of his scalpel into the empty wound, tearing the utensil downwards and monitoring the incision as it grows in length, a thin layer of yellowed fat peeking out of the split in epidermis and dermis layers. Another drag, the buttery tissue making way for weeping insides; the white wink of bone clinging to fibrous strands. The rib cage caves in easily enough after that, the surprisingly thin hypodermis matching muscle layer perfectly, and Sandy places the cracked bones carefully in a wooden box. Next comes the lungs, which he extricates simply by ripping with his hands instead of wasting time with his many scissors and knives. He has no requirement of the twin masses, discarding the slaty grey organs haphazardly with a slicked squelch.  _

 

_    Anything surrounding his goal is omitted, shiny diaphragm going untouched, kidneys left to fail in peace, trachea and thymus disregarded. Sandy tenderly closes his fist around his prize in the center, feeling the last feeble attempts to pump die out, and pulls the corpse’s heart straight from its chest cavity, blood and other bodily fluids leaking profusely from the extraction site and pouring down his bare forearms. A smile tugs across the medic’s lips, strained and aching as scars are yanked taut due to the movement, but manic nonetheless. A rattling cough springs from his throat, shaking his bony frame for several moments as Sandy steadies himself against the onslaught, and he turns on his heel with little to no finesse as the body on his operating table lies forgotten.  _

 

_    His collection of bones from this particular subject is closed up and placed on his special shelf alongside the hundreds of other trophies, the once-pulsing structure in his palm rapidly losing heat, but it matters not to the medic.  _

 

_    There’s a ruckus growing outside his lab, raised voices and the shattering of glass and thumping against the walls. Gunshots follow, a never-ending symphony muffled by the elation thrumming through Sandy’s veins. Excitement jitters beneath the surface of his skin, each one of his thousands of scars coming alight in anticipation. With deft and nimble fingers, Sandy removes the gloves from his hands, expert motions making quick work of the rubber, and he tips the pointed beak of his mask upwards, dislodging numerous mechanisms and clasps in the process as his crippled airways take a shuddering breath of rancid, muggy air. His throat  _ burns,  _ lungs picking up in a mad dash to get enough filtered, clean oxygen. But he won’t indulge them. The agony is  _ glorious.

 

_ His mouth waters, lips chapped and body shaking violently, but Sandy brings his hands to his mouth and quenches his relentless hunger with a  _ bite,  _ teeth gouging a bite out of the freshly harvested heart with a sickening slurp, saliva and blood dribbling down his chin as his grin widens, cheeks tight with the strain and laughter peeling from his abused chest, growing louder and louder as he feasts until his blood-lust is abated, quenched only for a meager moment, returning ferociously only heartbeats after to consume his very  _ being-- 

 

   “Sandy, your hand.”

 

   Said man whips his head up, head light and airy without the burden of his mask and hood draped over his shoulders. His breathing is erratic, frantic yet not panicked, lungs ablaze with the usual fire he gets when not using his oxygen apparatus. He stares at the body the voice came from for a moment before crashing back down to reality with a sudden inhale, glancing down and realizing the source of his visitor’s statement. He had bitten right through the meat of his hand, driving tooth to knuckle and causing stream after stream of blood to gush in thick sweet spurts, coating the back of his tongue and entire front. 

 

   He chuckles, voice cracking, “Ah, that does seem to be an issue, doesn’t it?” he drawls, removing his injured hand from his mouth and inspecting the damage. His guest doesn’t seem bothered one bit, watching with bored eyes behind the large holes in his white mask. 

 

   The man sighs, head propped up on the heel of his palm as he rolls his eyes. A woman is fast asleep against his shoulder, snoring obnoxiously yet somehow endearingly as she drools all over his coat. Sandy recalls the past moments before he was thrust into those oddly timed memories, attempting to gather information on what the three of them were doing exactly before he went under and the women passed out. 

 

   A bottle of hydrogen peroxide rests uncapped on the counter by his desk, to which he limps haggardly over to and pours a generous amount of the agent onto his wound without so much as a flinch. The laceration fizzles and pops as the peroxide works its way into his bloodstream, a sound not unlike that of a newly cracked can of soda. Sandy shrugs nonchalantly, to no one and no thought in particular, before wrapping the injury in long strips of gauze and dragging his busted body back to his chair.

 

   Risus watches him idly, ignoring the vermilion mess drenching the doctor’s face and clothes, drumming his fingertips against the side of his mask, red hair tossed wildly around his head and framing the dark skin peeking out from behind the ceramic. Sandy can tell he’s looking as ignorant as ever even though the prominent lips of his mask are curled into a menacing smile. 

 

   Sign groans to herself at his side, stretching against the throes of slumber with an audible snap as her stiff joints pop back into place. Sandy watches her snuggle back into place, tucked neatly into her companions side as he grumbles reluctantly, and his mouth twists with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

 

   “I’m not going to pretend like I care, nor that I feel morally obligated to ask, but what the fuck was that about, doc?” Risus mumbles, leg bouncing restlessly.

 

   Sandy chitters to himself, looking across the room with uneasy eyes. Honestly, he doesn’t know the answer to that either, and he knows that his excuses will not be met with appreciation; he’s a terrible liar when it comes to these things.

 

   Instead, he changes his expression into a look of heady mischief, eyes lidded and a lazy smile on his face, legs uncrossing purposefully in his seat. “Nothing at all, my dear, simply  _ reminiscing  _ about the  _ bloodier  _ things in life”, the insinuated innuendo is not lost on the terrorist, who startles minutely in surprise before smothering the small window of shock with a lecherous hum. Sandy is sure he has a look to match, “and, speaking of, I was wondering if you could…  _ assist me,  _ with some long overdue procedures.”

 

   His fellow immediately picks up on his erotic undertones, moving to gently push Sign away so he can stand up.

  
   “Well, you know me. I don’t like to keep a willing meal  _ waiting.”  _


End file.
